


It's a matter of choice

by Tails89



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, I was going for slow burn sterek, Medical Inaccuracies, Pretty gratuitous whump, didn't really happen though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 08:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13713414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tails89/pseuds/Tails89
Summary: “Derek?”Stiles stands in front of the werewolf, searching for some form of recognition. Derek is looking right at him, but his gaze is focused over Stiles’s shoulder.“Can you see me?”Derek takes a step forward and walks right through him. Stiles turns and watches him go.“Yeah, I’m going to take that as a no.”





	It's a matter of choice

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so here is a thing that was supposed to be a quick drabble and instead it snowballed completely out of control. I don't know how it happened but here we are. It's pretty gratuitous whumpy/angsty and I will tell you now, I have absolutely no medical knowledge so I tried to keep it a bit vague and it's probably full of mistakes.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. I enjoyed writing it!! Let me know what you think :)

 

He doesn’t remember what happened. He can’t recall the sequence of events that lead to him standing, transparent in a hospital hallway.

“Derek?”

Stiles stands in front of the werewolf, desperately searching for some form of recognition. Derek’s head is turned towards him, he’s looking _right_ at him, but his gaze is focused just over Stiles’s shoulder.

“Can you see me?”

Derek doesn’t answer, he just takes a step… and walks _right_ through him.

Stiles recoils, but Derek doesn’t seem to notice. He continues down the hallway and turns around the corner, disappearing from sight.

“Yeah, I’m going to take that as a no.”

He doesn’t move for a while. He’s frozen on the spot, grappling with this horrifying new information. Over the years, Stiles’s mortality had been made abundantly clear to him, but never like this. The threat of death and dismemberment had become an almost weekly occurrence. It hadn’t really ever scared him before. Until now.

The hospital corridor is a hive of activity. Monitors beep in staccato rhythms. Somewhere an alarm is wailing. Around him, nurses dash from room to room, working to keep the rest of their patients alive.

And through all the noise and all the chaos, no one looks at Stiles.

He’s not sure how long he’s been standing there. Minutes? Hours? Time seeps around Stiles, thick like molasses. Gluing him in place while the world moves on without him.

Stiles shifts his feet and he’s free. One step, then another, and then he’s walking.

The hall ends in a small waiting area. Hard plastic chairs line the walls and tables piled high with months-old trashy magazines sit in easy reach.

Stiles spies his friends immediately.

Scott sits against one wall, legs spread, arms hanging loosely against his thighs. He’s staring towards the corridor Stiles just came from, expression anxious.

Malia’s beside him with her legs curled up beneath her on the chair. She’s scratched grooves into the armrest where her fingers are digging in. Lydia clears her throat, catching Scott’s attention and nodding towards Malia. Scott notices that her claws have extended and lays a hand over hers.

Lydia turns back to her magazine. She’s turning the pages without looking at them, attempting expend some of her nervous energy.

Stiles wonders what they’re waiting for as his gaze drifts over each of his friends. Only Hayden and Liam are talking, but their hushed voices are indistinct over the buzz of background noise that fills the small room.

Across from Scott, Stiles’s gaze lingers on Derek. There’s something in his expression that Stiles can’t quite name. Maybe he’s just unused to Derek displaying any emotion other than brood. That’s not quite true though. Stiles knows Derek’s capable of showing his emotions. He’s seen it. He’s Skyped Derek every week since he left for college, persisting through Derek’s complaints about time wasting and what’s wrong with using the phone, until _Derek_ was the one initiating the calls.

Stiles had hoped that leaving for college would put an end to his embarrassing crush on Derek, but you know what they say; absence makes the heart grow fonder. It didn’t help that through their video chats Stiles had discovered Derek’s love for terrible puns, or the way his nose flared when he was trying not to laugh and it comes out as an amused huff. Or the way his ears-

Stiles scrubs his hands over his face and sits. He takes the chair beside Derek and props his elbows on his knees, head turned to watch his friends. One-by-one Stiles searches each face, taking in the signs of grief etched on their features. He hates that he’s the one that caused this.

When his mother died, people were constantly telling Stiles that she was in a better place, that she was finally at peace. At eleven years old, Stiles had called bullshit on the whole deal. The afterlife could go suck it, as far as he was concerned. This isn’t peace. This is Stiles’s nightmare.

The only person missing from the room is his dad. Stiles can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be there with everyone else and he’s about to go searching for him when Melissa walks in.

“Mom?” Scott’s the first to look up, but Derek beats him to stand and rush over her. “How is he?”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“When can we see him?”

Everyone is talking over each other, crowding around Melissa who is holding up her hands against the onslaught. Stiles takes in the dark smudges beneath her eyes. She looks exhausted. “One at a time guys, it’s been a long night,” she tells them.

Suddenly, everyone seems hesitant to speak. They glance around at each other before Scott finally repeats his first question.

“How is he?”

Melissa’s expressing goes soft as she focuses on her son. “He lost a lot of blood-” she explains gently. “But the surgeons were able to go in and fix the damage-“ she pauses, deciding the level of detail to go into, before going on. “-and he’s just been settled in his room.”

 

Scott and the others brighten at this news.

Stiles feels his brows knit together in confusion. He has no idea who are they talking about. His dad is the only person missing from the waiting room…

There’s a sinking sensation in the pit of his gut and Stiles goes cold all over. He needs to find his Dad. He needs to know that he is okay.

“When can we see him?” Stiles only half hears Lydia’s words. He can feel the anxiety rising through him. His father could be in any one of these rooms,

“That’s up to his Dad.” Melissa’s warm voice washes over him, a blanket of calm amidst all the chaos. “Give him some time with Stiles and I’ll talk to him about you lot visiting. Keep in mind-“

Wait.

Wait.

Stiles’s head jerks up, tuning in to Melissa’s words.

“-policy. As it is, we’re keeping Stiles sedated so-“

He realises with a start that they’re not talking about his dad. They’re talking about _Stiles_. Maybe, just _maybe_ he isn’t dead after all. But Stiles needs to know for sure.

*

His room ends up being easy to find. He just follows this tug in his chest until he stumbles through the doorway. It’s a good thing, he supposes, that he still has some connection to his body. Maybe he can use that to find a way back into it.

Stiles hovers by the door and counts down under his breath, forcing himself to look up and over at the bed.

It’s not a comforting sight.

The harsh fluorescent lighting reflects of the hard surfaces of the machines surrounding the bed. Stiles recognises some of them from when his mom was sick. There are a few new ones too. His chest goes tight and his legs shake as his eyes trace the maze of twisted wires from their starting points down to the ashen figure lying motionless beneath the blanket.

One of the tubes snaking down disappears into his mouth, another in his nose secured with tape. His skin is pale, almost grey with dark bruises under his eyes.

Stiles clutches at the doorframe. He’s dizzy and sweating and struggling to get himself under control. He manages to draw in a shaking break, huffing it out in an almost hysterical laugh. He’s having a panic attack in the doorway, while across the room his body is drawing in steady mechanical breaths. It’s too much. Stiles tries to focus on something else. He counts the number of vertical blinds hanging in the window – ten – and moves on to counting the squares of linoleum lining the floor. His breathing starts to come easier as he turns his attention to the number of chairs in the room. There are two. One sits empty in the far corner. The other has been placed beside the bed, and it’s occupied.

John Stilinski sits and watches his son sleep. He’s pulled the chair up close enough to the bed that he can reach up and brush aside the sweaty bangs lying limp on his boy’s forehead. His other hand reaches to smooth down the blanket pulled up around Stiles’s hips. There’s a hospital gown lying loosely over his chest, hiding the damage underneath.

John’s fingers twitch, hesitating over his son’s slack hand, like he’s afraid of how to hold it without tangling in the mess of IV’s. Finally, he settles on wrapping his warm fingers around Stiles’s cold ones, thumb stroking over his knuckles.

From across the room, Stiles watches. It’s surreal. He knows that it is him on the bed, yet it feels like he’s spying on a deeply private moment. He looks at his hands and imagines his father’s warm grip. He should feel something. Anything. All he feels is numb.

Cautiously, as if he might startle his father, Stiles walks over to the bed.

“Dad?” His voice cracks on the word.

His father continues to stroke Stiles’s hair with his free hand.

“I’m sorry son.””The way John’s voice cracks makes Stiles’s heart ache.  The Sheriff is still in his uniform. His typically crisp shirt is creased and it has come untucked at the back. It’s a look reminiscent of the time Stiles’s mom was sick and it’s not a memory he wishes to revisit.

There has to be a way to fix this. There must be something that Stiles can do. He needs to reassure his Dad that everything is going to be alright and to do that, he needs to get back into his body.

 But Stiles has no idea how he’s supposed to do that.

Stiles stands next to the bed and places both hands on the railing. He can still feel the connection that lead him to the room. Could he use that in some way? Maybe if it was a physical connection?

He places his translucent hand over the solid one on the bed.

Nothing happens.

Stiles frowns, he hadn’t expected that to work, yet a small part of him was desperately hoping it would. He wonders if maybe there needs to be more contact.

He feels ridiculous climbing onto the bed, carefully moving so as not to disturb the sleeping body. He scoots around so that he’s sitting, legs stretched out towards the end of the bed. He’s sitting on top of his own body and it feels so very weird. It’s like being surrounded by thick fog – cold and sort of clammy. Stiles shudders at the sensation and lies back on the bed, closing his eyes.

He waits.

The strange feeling doesn’t go away, so Stiles knows it hasn’t worked. He tries focusing on just one part of his body. He knows his Dad is still holding his hand, so Stiles tries to focus on that; tries to focus on his fathers calloused fingers. He can’t feel it though.

It’s difficult to concentrate. The room is noisy. Stiles tries to tune out the sounds of the monitors; the hurried beeping, the rhythmic whoosh of the ventilator. Stiles has forgotten how noisy hospitals can be.

Stiles sits up, twisting to look at the bed behind him. His body doesn’t so much as twitch, the rhythm on the monitor doesn’t falter. It didn’t work.

He tries again.

And again.

And again.

“Come on.” Stiles scrunches his eyes closed. “Come on Stiles! Come on.” He mumbles the words over and over, volume increasing until he’s yelling. “ _Come on!_ ”

His words cut off in a choked sob. It’s not working. He doesn’t feel any different. Stiles needs this to work so badly. He needs to get out of this nightmare and back to his Dad. Stiles tries to calm his breathing, he knows freaking out isn’t going to help his situation. He takes a deep breath and holds it, counting before he releases and opens his eyes.

Melissa is staring right at him.

Stiles lets out a yelp, startled by her sudden appearance. His heart races. Maybe it did work after all.

Melissa turns and says something to his dad. Her hand passes right through Stiles’s head as she goes to stroke his hair.

“No. No. No,” Stiles moans, dragging his hands up to scrub at his face. He’d got his hopes up for a second, allowed himself to believe for a moment that everything was normal again, but it wasn’t. He was still stuck.

Stiles scrambles off the bed and sits, sagging into the seat Melissa must have brought over. Across the room, light it is filtering through the blinds which meant that dawn had broken while he’d been lying on the bed. It really didn’t feel as though that much time had passed, but Stiles feels completely drained. He wonders if it’s from his efforts to return to his body or if it’s connected to his body’s physical condition and the injuries he’s sustained.

Stiles lets his head loll to the side. His dad yawns in the chair beside him and scrubs a hand across his face. John looks as exhausted as Stiles feels.

It takes Stiles a moment to realise Melissa is speaking. “You’ve been here all night,” she tells his father. “You need to go home and get some rest.”

“I need to be here for Stiles,” John argues, running a hand through his greying hair.

“How about a change of clothes at least?” Melissa counters, she knew getting John to leave was a long shot, but she had to try. She sees him about to argue and goes to cut him off. “John, Honey, you’ve been in that uniform since yesterday morning.” She reminds him gently. “I love you, but you’re starting to smell.” Her expression is fond as she points this out. “I bought you some things from home. You can use the staff showers. You know there are plenty of people out there who will stay with Stiles while you clean up.”

“If something happens-“

“I will come and get you,” Melissa promises. She waits for a response and Stiles watches on. He watches the moment John sighs and gives in.

 “Fine,” John surrenders. “But someone stays with him.”

Melissa nods, already moving towards the door. “I’ll go get Scott.”

Stiles blinks drowsily from his chair. Time seems to skip because suddenly Scott is standing awkwardly by his chair. Stiles hadn’t even seen him come in.

John stands slowly, stretching the kinks out of his back. He lets his hand lingers for a moment on his son’s forehead and he bends forward to whisper.

“I’ll be right back. I love you son.” Stiles can hear the words clearly, like they were spoken directly into his ear.

Melissa leads John from the room and Scott all but collapses in the newly vacant chair.

“Well this sucks,” Stiles mumbles.

Scott stares at the bed. “Well this sucks.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “I’ve missed you man. We don’t hang out enough anymore.” They used to be inseparable, hanging out every night eating junk food and playing video games, but they’d both gone off to different colleges. Scott had stayed in California, studying at UC Davis. Stiles had picked a school much further away and so they only get to see each other when Stiles comes home for the holidays.

They sit together in silence. Stiles wants to say something but can’t really see the point. Scott won’t hear him anyway.

Footsteps behind them announce Melissa’s return. Scott turns to look at his mom.

“I don’t-“ He stops, unsure of what to say. “Mom-“

 “I know it’s scary seeing him like this honey” Melissa tells him, coming up to stand beside the bed. She reaches for Stiles’s chart and pulls a pen from her pocket. “But he’s in good hands with Doctor Lewis.”

“And you.” Stiles whispers, straightening up in his chair. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what happened?” He knows Melissa can’t hear him, but he can’t just sit there quietly and watch. Stiles has always been a talker. It was the one comment that all his teachers wrote on his report cards; talks too much. And Stiles really doesn’t want to sit in silence, alone with his thoughts right now. That’s a dangerous road to go down, one that ends with him wallowing in self-pity and giving in to the panic bubbling away in his chest.

“I guess not, but it would be nice to know.” Stiles is going to keep asking questions and pretending he’s not possibly dying right now.

Scott, it seems, would rather sit and watch in silence. His eyes follow Melissa as she moves around the bed. He cocks his head towards the _hiss_ of the blood pressure cuff inflating and deflating around Stiles’s arm, and finally, when Melissa comes to stand beside him, Scott speaks.

“Can you-?” Scott gestures towards one of the machines.

“You want to know?” Melissa puts down the chart and tucks a curl behind her ear.

Scott nods.

Quietly, Melissa explains what’s going on, what the tubes are for and what’s in each of the bags of fluid hanging beside the bed. Stiles listens attentively as she speaks, absorbing the information and tucking it away in his brain for later. He thinks briefly that hearing about his condition should make the whole situation more scary, but Stiles has always taken comfort in facts and information and he’s grateful to finally get some idea of what’s going on.

He has questions too. Though he’ll probably have to wait a bit longer to get all his answers.

Melissa gently reminds Scott that there are others wishing to come in. Stiles isn’t ready for his best friend to leave, but he doesn’t get much say in the matter, Scott is already on his feet heading for the door.

Just before he leaves, Scott hesitates by the door.

 “I’m sorry Stiles. I should have been there.”

“It’s not your fault man,” Stiles tells him but Scott is already turning away.

Derek comes in next. He hovers just inside the room and Stiles can practically feel the guilt radiating off him. He goes to step further closer to the bed, mouth open to say something. Then he stops, turns and walks out.

Stiles is of half a mind to follow him and he’s halfway out of his chair when Lydia enters.

Her eyes are red and puffy and curls of hair are escaping her braid. She looks like she’s been up all night and Stiles thinks that’s probably not too far off the truth.

He steps aside when she walks up to the bed, and leans against the railing next to her. A tear drips down towards her chin where it is captured by the swipe of her hand.

Stiles sighs. “Lyds, you need to go home. Get some rest.”

Lydia’s head jerks up sharply and she’s staring right at him.

“Lydia?” Stiles holds a breath, reaching forward. “Can- can you hear me?” Was this one of her Banshee powers?

Lydia frowns, her head tilts to the side and her eyes are still locked with Stiles’s.

And then her gaze slips down, looking towards the bed like nothing happened.

Stiles’s breath comes out in a rush. He was so sure Lydia had seen him. Was it just some fluke that their eyes had locked? Lydia has done some amazing things before, surely Stiles can find a way to communicate with her.

“Come on Lydia, looked at me!” He tries so hard to capture attention again, shouting and moving about. “Please Lydia.” When that doesn’t work, Stiles tries grabbing on to her, his hands passing through her solid form like they’re made of smoke.

Lydia doesn’t look at him again, but she does look increasingly agitated and she hugs her arms around herself as if cold.

“Lydia!” Stiles screams her name and the Banshee’s eyes drift towards him, wide with shock.

“S-stiles?”

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles feels the tension rush out of his body. “Lydia, I don’t know what happened. I don’t-“ He’s almost crying in relief. “I don’t know how to get back or why I’m even stuck like this. You’ve got to tell the others- I don’t- maybe you can-”

“Stiles?”

“You’ve gotta tell me what happened Lyds,” Stiles reaches out to her. “I-I don’t remember.”

There’s no comprehension on Lydia’s face, no acknowledgement of his words. She’s still just… staring. Then she speaks.

“Stiles…? Are you there?”

And Stiles just. Shatters.

“No,” the word escapes on his breath. “No. Lydia please.”

She’s not even looking anymore. She’s turned away from the bed and is walking towards the door, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Lydia.”

And she’s gone.

Stiles wants to scream. He wants to kick and stomp and yell and swear. So he does all those things, but it doesn’t help the frustration festering away inside him. Finally, exhaustion has him sinking to the ground. He leans against the wall, his knees pulled up, head pillowed on his arms. Stiles finds it hard to think, to focus. He feels completely drained.

He stares blankly at a spot on the opposite walls while time rushes on around him, like someone hit fast-forward. He’s aware of his dad returning to the room and resuming his spot by the bed. Then he blinks and there’s another nurse in the room.

There is someone new in the room when Stiles finally focuses on the bed again. He’s still on the floor, sitting in a patch of sunlight that has been slowly shifting across the floor all day. His Dad is gone, but Stiles see him through the doorway, talking on the phone.

The figure standing opposite him, Stiles realises, is Derek. It seems he’s back to lurk some more. He doesn’t say anything. He just watches and broods.

 “Are you really just going to stand there?” Stiles asks him. “You’re such a creeper.” There’s no malice in his words, his earlier anger has bubbled away. He’s actually glad to see Derek again.

He’s a little surprised Derek has even come to visit.

Stiles has a vague recollection of arguing with him about… something. Stiles can’t remember the exact details. He’s fairly certain they were at the loft and Derek had said… Stiles draws a blank there. He just remembers that he’d been angry and he’s stormed out and then… then nothing.

Stiles climbs to his feet and walks up to Derek.

“Hey Sourwolf,” he says, grinning because he knows Derek hates it when he calls him that. “You look awful.” He imagines Derek’s response would be to snort and shoot back some retort about Stiles not looking so hot himself. “I guess I’m going to have to do all the work,” he mutters because of course Derek isn’t actually going to answer him.

John sticks his head through the door. “Hey Derek?” He beckons the werewolf into the hallway and Stiles decides to follow them. “I have a favour to ask. You see, I just got a call from the station,” John explains, pocketing his phone. “Stiles’s Jeep was towed to the impound lot this morning,” he says.

“We got a mechanic to take a look at it, and here’s the thing; there’s nothing mechanically wrong with the damn thing.”

This is it, Stiles thinks. Someone’s finally going to clue him in to what happened.  

“I don’t understand,” Derek frowns, and glances back towards the room. “Stiles was found in his Jeep, right? I thought-“

“MVA? That’s what I thought initially too,” John runs a hand through his hair. It’s been a stressful twenty-four hours. “But there is not a single scratch on that car that wasn’t already there yesterday morning,” he explains. “There wasn’t even a mark on Stiles. His injuries have the Doctors completely baffled.”

“How does that happen?” Derek asks. He may not be human, but he does have a decent understanding of how human injuries work, if only because of all the shit he’s seen Stiles get into over the years.

“You tell me.” John shakes his head. “The woman who called it in? She thought Stiles was just some drunk kid who’d passed out behind the wheel.”

Stiles snorts. “Seriously? You’re the Sheriff! Like I’d risk even looking at alcohol before getting in my car.”

“What do you want me to do?” Derek is talking over him.

“Can you go to the impound lot and take a look at it?” John asks. “Maybe you can see something we missed.”

Derek is already connecting the dots. “You think it’s something supernatural.”

“It’s Beacon Hills. It’s always something Supernatural.” John’s mouth sets in a grim line.

Derek sighs. “I’ll go have a look. It’s the least I can do after…” he trails off and shoves his hand into his pocket, fishing around for his car keys. He goes to leave, but John stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Son, this isn’t your fault,” he tells Derek gently, wishing the kid would believe it.

Derek just looks at him and shrugs off the hand.

“Yeah, it is.”

He leaves down the hallway, boots heavy against the linoleum.

Stiles stands by his father, watching Derek go. After that conversation he has even more questions and nobody to answer them. Why did Derek blame himself for the incident? Was it because of their argument? Stiles wishes there was something he could do to reassure the Beta werewolf. He turns to his dad and realises the older Stilinksi has disappeared back into the room.

 “You’re right about him Stiles,” John’s resumed his position by the bed. “That boy has got way too much guilt riding on his shoulders.” He lets out a long breath. “What did you get yourself into kid?”

Stiles leans against the bed, hands braced on the railing, facing his father. “I wish I could remember Dad.”

John stares at his hands. “Out of all the werewolves and banshees and foxes in your group, why are you the one who seeks out trouble?” He looks up as if expecting an answer.

“What?” Stiles pushes back from the bed, mouth hanging open in indignation. “I don’t! Trouble seeks out me!”

“Part of me wishes you’d never come back.”

Stiles goes still, heart beating rabbit fast. “What?”

“Going to college and getting out of Beacon Hills was the best thing to happen to you. I was so relieved when you told me you’d decided on MIT.” John looked up. “It didn’t even matter that we never got to see each other. You were safe and I could live with that.”

Stiles remembers nervously clutching the envelope with his acceptance letter, wondering how his dad was going to react to him going to school on the other side of the country. He remembers how surprised he was when his Dad broke into a massive smile and gathered him into a hug. The Sheriff had spent the weeks up to Stiles’s departure proudly telling everyone within earshot that his son was going to MIT.

John sighs. “I’m almost glad when you tell me you can’t get time off to visit,” he says, guilt lacing his words. “And when you do come home I get so scared that something might happen, something like this.”

With his father’s words, more memories are beginning to connect. Stiles had come home for Spring Break. After working over Thanksgiving and Christmas, he’d taken time off to surprise his dad by flying home for the week.

“I’m pretty sure Derek feels the same.” John smiles. “He’s got it as bad for you as you have for him. You know, he comes over for dinner once a week-“

“What?” Stiles flails, his arms jerking in surprise. “Since when? Why am I just hearing about this?”

“-asking about you, what you’re up to. One of you needs to make a move soon. Mel thinks it’s adorable. I’m tired of all the moping-”

“I do not mope,” Stiles huffs nervously. “Derek though, totally a moper.” He wonders how his Dad had found out about his crush. Stiles had been prepared to take that secret to his grave! He glances at the bed… Well, maybe not that far. In hindsight, he was beginning to have some regrets about not mentioning his feelings to a certain someone.

“-and you think your crush was a secret. Son, I’ve been a police officer for twenty-two years. I know all your secrets. Mel and I have money riding on it. Hell, even Scott knows you’re completely gone for Derek.” John chuckles to himself. “I swear, for all your brains, you can be so oblivious to the blindingly obvious.”

Stiles lets his head drop into his hands. He hopes this is one conversation he forgets if- when he wakes up.

Melissa knocks on the door and enters the room, casting a critical eye over John. “So,” she starts, in full mother-hen mode. “Have you had anything to eat since I last saw you?” She asks, walking over. Stiles makes to move out of the way, once again forgetting that no one can see him.

 “Mel-“

“Don’t ‘Mel’ me John!”

Stiles grins. He loves this woman.

“You need to eat and you need to sleep.” Melissa’s voice softens. “You’re no good to Stiles if you make yourself sick worrying over him.”

John sighs again. “I just don’t like leaving him on his own.”

“I’ll be okay Dad,” Stiles stands beside his father. The idea of being alone in the room doesn’t scare him as much as the idea of something happening to his Dad. The Sheriff’s face is pinched with fatigue and there are dark circles under his eyes. It alarms Stiles that he hadn’t noticed, too caught up in himself.

“I know,” Melissa says. “And he won’t be. My shift finishes in an hour. I’ve got Scott coming over to pick me up. Here’s what we’re going to do instead,” her tone leaves no room for argument. “Scott’s going to take you home-“ She catches John’s expression. “Don’t argue with me Stilinski. You are going to go home, you are going have dinner and you are going to shower. Got it?”

“Someone needs to stay with him.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Melissa promises. “He won’t be on his own.” She waits for John to agree before moving to take Stiles’s chart, comparing the numbers to earlier observations. She goes through the motions of checking temperature, pulse rate and blood pressure, marking it all down in his file. Stiles watches her work amazed at Melissa’s ability to detach herself from the situation and pretend like he’s just another random person rather than the kid she helped raise.

She finishes up, placing the chart at the foot of the bed.

“He’s not doing any better, is he?” John asks, face pale and drawn. He watched the whole procedure with one hand tightly clutching his son’s.

Melissa takes time to consider her response carefully. “He’s not doing any worse,” she offers. “And right now, no change is a good thing.” She breaks John’s gaze for a moment to scribble something onto her hand. “We still don’t really know what happened, other than he went through some pretty severe trauma.” She tucks her pen into her pocket and looks back up. “It’s been just over twenty-four hours,” she reminded him. “It might take some time before we start to see some improvement.”

It’s not the news Stiles was hoping to hear, neither was his dad, judging by his expression. The Stilinski’s have too much experience receiving bad news, they’ve learnt to take it on board, swallow down any feelings of helplessness and try to move forward. And as Stiles watches his dad’s expression change, that’s exactly what John does. He takes a steadying breath and asks, “So what are we doing for him, to help him get better?”

And Melissa, because she’s wonderful, tells him, mindful to reiterate that the hard part is up to Stiles, who is a great kid and so strong and clever and don’t give up on him yet. Stiles blushes at Melissa’s words and fidgets awkwardly as they talk about him. He knows mothers are supposed to say stuff like that, and even if Melissa isn’t his mom, she’s always been there for him and his dad.

“I need to check the incision,” Melissa waits for John to nod before pulling down the thin hospital gown that had been tucked around Stiles’s bare chest. Ever the curious one, Stiles can’t help wondering if the gown was all he was wearing or if he’s got underwear on under the sheet, but then he catches a glimpse of the transparent dressing and instead becomes preoccupied with whether ghosts can faint or throw up. He looks away quickly to avoid finding out.

He watches his Dad instead.

“I just don’t understand how this happened.” John gestures towards the bed. “Yesterday morning he was packing to head back to school.”

The sudden memory is a burst of colours and sounds in his mind’s eye. Stiles remembers he was angrily shoving clothes into his beg. He pissed off at Derek over a really stupid fight.

Stiles had casually broached the idea of taking a semester off school and coming home. He’d been researching supernatural creatures around doing his homework since he’d left for Cambridge, helping out his dad or Scott when they came up across a threat they knew nothing about. It was stressful, knowing what his family was up against, and living across the other side of the country, unable to help in any tangible way, shape or form.

Derek had told him it was a great idea if Stiles was looking to get himself killed. Stiles was human, and therefore useless anyway.

Stiles had taken offense to that and the whole thing had deteriorated into a shouting match that ended with Stiles going home to pack his things and bitch to his dad.

…Then he thinks there was a text message.

…And now he’s a ghost.

“He was supposed to get away from all of this,” John says, his voice is strained. “Be a normal kid. That’s all I wanted for him and Scott and Lydia and all of them. They deserve better than this.” He runs a hand over the scruff growing over his jaw. “I honestly didn’t think this town could surprise me anymore.”

 “Yeah, well, you’re not the only one,” Melissa reassures him. “Every time things quieten down I think ‘maybe this time it’s over. Maybe this time our kids will catch a break’ and every time it comes back round to bite me in the ass.” She covers Stiles back up and grabs the chart lying on the bed. “Scott told me you’ve got Derek looking into it.”

 “Yeah. It just doesn’t feel right.” John smooths down the blanket now that Melissa has finished up, still tightly gripping Stiles’s hand. “His car was just sitting there in the middle of the road, there was no sign of a collision, his god damn engine was still running! You were here when Stiles was brought in. There wasn’t a mark or a scratch or a single bruise on him. You saw him! The ER doctor thought it was a drug overdose. Drugs Melissa! As if my kid-“ his mouth works, searching for the right words to convey his rage at the suggestion. “-even after the blood tests came back clean! No, this whole thing screams of supernatural intervention if you ask me.”

The memory that hits Stiles is less clear than the others, but just as vivid.  He remembers a voice, insistent that he open his eyes, but the light is bright. It burns. More voices swirled over him, urgent but indistinct. He remembers hands on him and a familiar face with dark eyes, curly hair and green scrubs.

“Stiles, honey look at me.”

The memory is patchy and disjointed. He remembers hands; touching his face, his arms, his stomach. There’s a hot metallic taste on his tongue and the hands roll him onto his side and it hurts. God, it hurts!

Stiles drags himself away from the pain, surfacing from the memory. Melissa is gone and his dad is quietly talking, telling him a story about one of the deputies.

 Stiles leans against the bed, hooking his arms over the railing. He’s heard this story before. It’s one of his dad’s favourites. Stiles notices Lydia before his dad does. She’s standing in the doorway with a faraway look on her face.

“Lyds?” He watches her cock her head, like she’s listening. “Come on Lydia, look at me.” She turns and their eyes lock across the room. “That’s my girl.”

She takes a step towards him, heels clacking on the floor. The Sheriff finally notices her, jolting around to face her.

“Lydia.”

“You were talking to him.” Lydia’s attention is still on Stiles as she comes up to the bed.

“I-“ John looks a bit sheepish. “It’s more for my benefit that for his, I guess.” He looks back at his son sleeping on the bed. “But I heard it’s- that it’s good to talk… even if he can’t hear me.”

“He can.” Lydia’s words are soft, her gaze now focused on the Sheriff’s startled expression. “I don’t really know how to explain it,” her eyes narrow as she turns back to Stiles, as if that will help her see clearer. “I get these brief flashes, like he’s standing right there. I keep expecting to look up and see him.

 “Me too.” John gestures to the other seat, but Lydia shakes her head.

“I-“ She hesitates for a second. “My classes go back tomorrow,” She says finally. “I was supposed to fly back this morning, we both were.” She bites her lip, eyes flicking towards the sleeping figure on the bed. “I- I was thinking of staying.”

“No.” Stiles and the Sheriff say it at the same him. Stiles lurches forwards away from the bed. “Lydia, no you’ve got to go back.” He tells her, conveniently forgetting that Derek had said the same thing to him.

“Lydia,” John holds out his hand to the girl, drawing her down into the empty seat. “You need to go back to school.,” he tells her. “You- all of you- deserve a life outside of Beacon Hills, where you can just be kids.” He sees her mouth open to argue and cuts it off swiftly. “It should never have been your job to protect this town. I’m the Sheriff, I shouldn’t have been letting high school students do my job for me. You and Stiles were safe at MIT. He would want you to go back.”

“Damn right I do,” Stiles agrees.

Lydia considers the Sheriff’s words. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to just leave and pretend everything is normal.”

John hopes his smile looks reassuring. “He’s going to be fine Lydia. We’ll figure this out and he’ll be back at MIT in no time.”

“He better be. I’ll drag him back myself if I have to.” Lydia is beginning to sound more like her normal self. “You’ll keep me updated, right?”

“Of course.”

*

Lydia leaves soon afterwards to finish packing, but they’re not alone for long. Melissa is back ushering John out of the room. Her no-nonsense demeanour leaves no room for argument and as much as John wants to stay, he allows himself to be shepherded out with a soft “I’ll be back soon” and a light kiss to his son’s sweaty forehead.

“Okay kiddo,” Melissa sits beside the bed. “You’ll be pleased to know I got your Dad to go home.” She’s changed out of her scrubs since finishing her shift, swapping them for a pair of jeans and her favourite purple cardigan.

“You’re the best Mel,” Stiles moves to the spare chair and makes himself comfortable. “I bet Scott takes him through the drive through on the way home. I know he’s enabling Dad’s curly fry addiction. He’s an enabler Mel. He thinks I don’t know, but I totally know.”

Melissa pulls her hair from its messy bun and reties it. “Here’s hoping he gets some rest-”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Stiles snorts. “We both know what he’s like.”

“-but my money’s on him being back within the hour.” She leans over and takes Stiles’s hand. “Now it’s your turn, hun,” she tells him. “You need to get better before your Dad and I go completely grey.”

Stiles looks down at his hands, worrying at a loose thread on his hoody. “I don’t know what to do.” He glances across at Melissa. “I don’t know why I’m here, why I’m… like this.” He looks down at his hands again. They look so solid to him, as long as he doesn’t try to touch anyone. “I don’t know how to get back.”

“You kids,” Melissa shakes her head. “I swear I can link every single grey hair I have to something you or Scott did. Between Scott’s asthma and your natural ability to find trouble it’s a wonder I-“

Footsteps echo in the corridor and a head pokes through the doorway.

“Hey, I think I found something-“ Derek halts just inside the threshold. “I- sorry Melissa. You are not the Sheriff.”

“Not last time I checked,” Melissa teases, twisting in her seat and Derek smiles sheepishly. “I sent him home with Scott,” she clarifies. “You could head over or-“

“I’ll wait,” Derek says it quickly. “I wanted to uh…” he trails off eyes flicking from Melissa to the bed.

 “You wanted to see Stiles. It’s okay Derek.” Melissa waves to the chair beside her. The one Stiles is sitting in. “Take a seat.”

“Oh, uh-“ Stiles scrambles up from the chair, not wishing to experience Derek sitting on him. He takes a seat at the foot of the bed, letting his feet hang over the edge. “Well this is awkward,” he says shifting uncomfortably. Neither Melissa or Derek speak and the tension in the room is palpable. Melissa looks like she wants to say something and Stiles prays she keeps whatever thoughts she has to herself. He does not want her to embarrass him while he’s unconscious and unable to do anything to stop it.

“I’m just going to pop out for a second,” she says and Stiles lets out a relieved breath.

Derek however reacts differently, his head comes up sharply and he asks, “What? Is everything okay?” Stiles swears he can hear the concern in his voice and he doesn’t know what to do with this information.’

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” Melissa assures him. “I just want to have a chat with his doctor. Can you stay with him?”

Derek still looks kind of panicked, but he nods and Melissa eases out of her chair. “I’ll be right back,” she promises with a soft touch to his shoulder.

If anything, the tension is worse once Melissa leaves. Derek sits rigid and silent, staring at Stiles’s sleeping face. The quiet quickly gets to Stiles, but there’s nothing he can do to break it, so he stares back at Derek and picks at his sleeve.

It’s several long, tense minutes before Derek finally speaks.

“Your car stinks of magic,” he says suddenly and without preamble, words spilling out as though he’s just as uncomfortable to fill the silence as Stiles is. “Your dad asked me to go have a look and I- I should have seen this coming. I should have picked up on it sooner.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You are so ridiculous sometimes,” he teases. “This wasn’t your fault. I know it, Dad knows it, _everyone_ knows it except _you_.”

“I could smell it,” Derek goes on oblivious. “On you. In the ambulance. I- didn’t even realise. I just-“

“You probably had other things to worry about.” Stiles knows it’s useless to argue, but he’s completely over this guilt trip Derek is on.

The werewolf is no longer looking at him.  “It’s my fault. I knew about the witches.”

Stiles sucks in a breath. Witches? There’s a flash of something… of pain.

“They’ve been in Beacon Hills for about two weeks. Scott and I went to talk to them when they arrived. There was- supposed to be a truce.”

The witches. Scott had mentioned something about them in the days before Stiles had returned to Beacon Hills. He’d helped put information together to help with the truce before getting caught up in exam prep.

He remembers them now. He’d been on his way back to Derek’s when his Jeep died. It had just rolled to a stop in the middle of the street.

“Come on! Really?” Stiles had slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, cursing loudly.

He remembers snatching the roll of duct tape that lived in his glove box. He remembers the slam of his door and the rusty creak of the hood lifting.

He remembers the voice, like ice, freezing his veins.

“I’ve already spoken to Scott and Malia about them. It’s a fairly small coven,” Derek looks up. “We’ve got a plan to deal with them.”

Stiles frowns, brows drawing together. “Oh no. No no _no_ , Derek we all know how Scott’s plans turn out,” he complains. “That’s why _I_ make the plans. That’s what I do, I’m the Plan Master and you’re a self-sacrificing idiot.” He lets out a groan. “God, you’re going to get yourselves killed and I’ll probably be stuck here in limbo forever. This is not how I was supposed to spend my Spring Break!”

“And once this is over, you can go back to college, where you’ll be safe.”

“Are we really back to this again?” Stiles stands, stalking towards Derek finger stabbing at the werewolf. “We’ve already had-“

“I’m sorry that I yelled at you,” Derek’s voice is soft, Stiles barely hears him caught up in his ranting. “At the loft. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Stiles stops in his tracks, arm dropping to hang at his side.

“I know why you said it,” Derek says. “Why you want to stay. I can- hear it. It your heartbeat. I can-“ He takes a shakey breath. “I want you to stay.” The words are barely a whisper. “But I can’t. I can’t ask you to stay, not for me. It’s not worth it. I’m-“ another uneven breath- “not worth it.”

And if that doesn’t break Stiles’s heart, just a little. He takes another step towards Derek.

“I’m not worth your life.”

“That’s not up to you to decide,” Stiles mutters. “That’s up to me, and I think you’re definitely worth it.”

“I can’t keep you safe here.”

“Ugh!” Stiles throws his hands up. “Why do you think I wanted to stay? You say you want to keep me safe? Well, maybe I want to be here to protect you!  I can’t do that from fucking Massachusetts!” He buries his face in his hands, pressing his palms against his hot, itchy eyes.

“I can’t lose you.”

Stiles lets his hands fall. “Likewise, big guy.” He feels like if he was in his normal body he would be shaking, so he sits, twisting to face Derek. “God, I miss you guys so much. I miss _you_ Derek. And you expect me to just sit back and watch from 3000 miles away, while you throw yourself into danger every other week? It’s not going to happen-“

“I’ve lost too many people I love.” They say the words simultaneously. Stiles feels like his heart is beating out of his chest, yet the monitors by the bed maintain their same steady rhythm.

“I should have asked you to come with me,” Stiles whispers. He’s facing Derek’s shoulder, watching the werewolf in profile as the older man reaches across to grip a hand laying slack on the bed. “Jesus, I was so fucking keen to get out of Beacon Hills, to be honest I kind of just assumed you’d come with me.” His lips quirk up. “I was hoping you’d come with me.” He reaches across to rest his fingers along the back of the other chair. He can’t actually touch Derek, but he pretends he has a hand on the werewolf’s shoulder.

Stiles glances at where Derek’s hand rests against his own on the bed. “Derek, I’m going to wake up,” he promises. “And I’m going to go back to school, and I’m taking you with me if I have to drag you kicking and screaming. You’re not the only one tired of losing people you love.”

“You’re not going to lose him Derek.”

Derek flinches, his hand quickly slipping off the bed. “We don’t know that yet.”

Melissa raises an eyebrow, surprised to have caught Derek of guard. “Thanks for the show of confidence,” she tells him. “I’ve only been a nurse for twenty-four years. What would I know about all this?”

Derek tries to backtrack. “I’m sorry. I meant-”

“I know what you meant,” she’s not upset by his words. “It’s hard to watch someone you love in pain.”

“He’s not in pain, I tried to-“

Melissa laughs, and waves him off. “Stiles is drugged up to the gills right now, I doubt there’s anything for him to feel. Save your freaky werewolf magic for when he wakes up.” She comes to stand beside him. “I guess what I meant to say is, it’s hard to be helpless.”

“We know who did this,” Derek starts to explain. “And we’ve got a plan.”

“Sure,” Melissa’s expression hardens. “And I hope you get those sons of bitches that did this to our boy. But once it’s over it doesn’t make the waiting any easier.”

“But it’s something.”

They sit together until Scott returns with the Sheriff.

They’d been gone for less than two hours, but John’s wearing a fresh set of clothes, and his face is freshly shaven.

Melissa waits in the room with Stiles while Derek and Scott go outside to brief the Sheriff on what they know and the plan so far. Malia, Liam and Hayden are already waiting back at the loft. Argent was going to meet them there as well.

John thinks it’s a terrible plan, but then again, their Plan Master is currently incapacitated and it’s not the most awful plan Scott’s come up with in the past. He wants to come with them, but the werewolves veto his involvement, arguing that he’s human and Stiles needs him. John reluctantly agrees.

Melissa elects to stay at the hospital and wait with him.

It’s a tense wait.

Scott sends them a text message around ten PM. They’re going in.

The night drags on, with no further updates. Stiles paces across the floor, chewing on a hangnail as he circles back around. Melissa and John talk in hushed tones, heads bent together.

At some point a nurse comes in to check vitals. She and Melissa talk for a moment, but Stiles can’t even be bothered to eavesdrop. He feels at odds with himself. He can’t explain it, the connection to his body feels weird and he’s just full of nervous energy. His fingertips tingle as he clenches his hands into fists trying to regain normal sensation. Open. Closed. Open. Closed.

Seven AM brings a shift change, rounds and no new information from the pack.

Melissa ducks out to find coffee, leaving Stiles and the Sheriff alone.

Still they wait.

Stiles spent most of the night pacing, ignoring the concern gnawing at him. It had been intensifying throughout the night and he feels all fuzzy around the edges. He looks at his hands, almost expecting to see them dissolving. They look the same as always.

He goes back to pacing, tracing out a pattern on the faded linoleum.

He’s anxious, and fidgety, and more than a little bit bored of the wait. Stiles has never been good at being patient. He’s afraid. The fear grips at his chest, long tendrils that wrap around his lungs and make it hard to breath.

Melissa returns, and resumes her seat.

Stiles leans against the wall, tugging at his collar. He feels…weird. His hands shake.

“Melissa?” His legs give out beneath him and he stumbles to his hands and knees. “Something’s wrong.”

Stiles can hear an alarm blaring in the distance. He can see Melissa out of the corner of his eye. She’s launching out of her seat and rushing to the bed. There’s yelling and footsteps racing towards them.

Stiles’s vision tunnels, grey edging in. He’s dimly aware of the light spilling in from the corridor, casting a brilliant glow across the doorway.

Stiles crawls towards it.

It’s warm.

And soft.

Stiles hadn’t realised how cold he was until he felt the sun on his face.

He opens his eyes and suddenly he’s nine again with scraped knees and bloody palms, and his Mom is there kissing it better. She strokes his cheek with a soft sigh.

“Mama?”

She looks just how she did before her sickness. Vibrant. Moles speckle her rosy cheeks, her eyes sparkle in the sunlight. Stiles throws his arms around her and lets himself be gathered into a hug.

“Oh, my baby, my love. You’re not supposed to be here.” Claudia Stilinski pulls back reluctantly, her eyes crinkling in concern.

“But Mama!“

Stiles can’t go. He just got here and he’s waited so long to see his mother again. She’s so beautiful with her wavy brown hair, just as thick as his. She tucks a strand behind her ear in a familiar move that Stiles had completely forgotten until that moment. There are so many little things that he’d forgotten, like the exact tone of her voice and the way she-

“No, Mischief-”

-the way she says his name like she’s trying not to laugh. Even when Stiles knows he should be in trouble.

She’s not laughing now. Claudia cards her hand through her son’s hair.

“It’s not time for you baby,” she tells him. “You need to go back.”

But Mischief doesn’t want to go back. He wants to stay. Going back means fear and pain. Staying means warm hugs and laughter. Staying means being with Mom.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers.

“I know baby,” his Mom kisses his forehead and pulls Stiles back into a hug. “But you know you don’t belong here.”

Stiles’s thoughts go to his Dad, to Derek, to Scott and Melissa. Staying means not seeing them again. Not for a long, long time. He’s not sure he’s ready to say goodbye to his friends and family.

As if she can read his thoughts, Claudia is nodding. “So many people who love you. They need you Stiles.”

Stiles chokes back a sob. “But I need you.”

“No, you don’t baby, not yet.” Claudia wipes her thumb across Stiles cheek, drying his tears. “One day, when you’re old and you’ve lived your full life, but not today.”

Brows knit, Stiles looks up at his mom, “I don’t know how to get back.” He has no idea how he even arrived at this wonderful place. They’re sitting in a patch of lush green grass, shaded from the scorching heat of the summer sun. Stiles recognises it as his backyard, before the weeds took over the flowerbeds.

“Yes, you do,” Claudia says. “You just have to choose. You can choose to stay here, or you can choose to go home.”

“I could stay?” Stiles considers his options. If he stayed… that would kill his dad. John had taken years to get to a point where he could move on after Claudia’s death. Stiles had watched his father almost succumb to his grief, he could not do that to him again.

And Derek.

Derek would have no one to drag him out of Beacon Hills. He’d lose another pack member and Derek had already lost too many.

But Stiles could get his mom back. They could get back all the years they lost to her terrible disease.

Stiles draws in a shaking breath. “I love you Mom.”

He closes his eyes against the light and makes his choice.

*

“Stiles?” The warmth has gone.

“Hey, shhhh. You’re okay.”

It’s dark and his arm itches. He wants to scratch but his limbs feel heavy, so heavy. He manages to drag a hand up and-

“Leave that alone, hun.”

He finally feels warmth. It comes in the form of a hand gripping his, guiding it back down towards the blankets. He curls his fingers around it, drawing a soft gasp from somewhere to his left.

“Oh hi, you awake in there?” The voice is teasing, affectionate. It lulls him back to sleep.

The next time he surfaces, there’s pain. It starts as a steady throb that sharpens into something that has him scrunching up his face and balling his fists into the sheets.

He groans and the sound is cut off in a choke. There’s something in his mouth. In his nose. He panics. He can’t breathe. He can’t-

“Stiles?” This voice is different. Deeper. “Calm down.” There’s a calloused hand on his forehead and another hand gripping the fingers reaching up to investigate what’s going on around his face.

Stiles opens his eyes. His dad’s relieved face swims into focus above him.

“Good to see you again kid.”

Stiles blinks up at him, dazed and disoriented but his dad is there, which means he’s safe. His heart is still racing, and Stiles is fighting against the weight of his eyelids.

“Hey, you’re okay,” his dad’s voice washes over him. “You’re in the hospital.”

Stiles is fighting a losing battle and despite his best efforts, he drifts off.

Each time he wakes, Stiles is a little more lucid. He’s not sure how much time as passed, each waking moment blurs into the next. Doctors and nurses come in to talk at him and poke at him. He sits up in bed, watching through half-lidded eyes and nodding when he thinks it might be appropriate. They must be happy with how he responds because at some point two nurses come in to remove the tube in his throat, slipping an oxygen mask over his face to replace it.

“Wha’ happened?” The words grate against his irritated throat.

“You were literally just told not to talk,” John tries to reprimand his son. He’s had a grip on Stiles’s hand since he woke, like he’s afraid he’ll lose him again if he lets go.

Stiles shifts his head on the pillow. “Dad…“

“It was witches.”

The monitor to Stiles’s left betrays him. Picking up speed when he recognises the new voice. John, the smug bastard, gives his son’s hand a squeeze and stands.

“Where y’going?” Stiles tightens his grip on his Dad’s hand. He ignores his Dad’s pointed look. He almost died. Stiles thinks he’s allowed to be a little clingy. Also, Derek Hale is standing at the foot of his bed and Stiles is attached to a lie detector that even a human can interpret.

“I’ve been camped out in this chair for days. I need coffee. Derek can stay with you, right Derek?”

The werewolf nods slowly.

“Fine,” Stiles croaks. “But get decaf. Y’know you shouldn’t-“

John puts both hands on his hips and raises an eyebrow. “I really don’t think you’re in any position to lecture me about my health right now.”

Stiles shrugs, grimacing at the tug of stitches. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Cut me some slack kid, I’ve had a tough week,” John teases. “I’ll be back soon okay. You boys play nice now.” He strolls out of the room, smug grin still plastered to his face.

Stiles groans. He’s too old for his Dad to still embarrass him like this.

“You okay?” Derek is already beside the bed, hand on Stiles’s arm, black lines tracing over his skin. Stiles can feel the tension draining with the pain.

“Y’know they got drugs f’that,” he mumbles, relaxing further into his pillow. Derek mutters something in response, too quiet for Stiles to hear.

“Dude, why we whispering?” he asks, voice rasping. Derek’s face is really close. Really, really close. Like Stiles could just- he shakes his head and pulls his hand away. Drugs and werewolf mojo, not a great combination when trying to keep a clear head.

“How are you feeling?” Derek ignores Stiles’s question, still keeping his voice low. Stiles sees him glance back towards the door.

He narrows his eyes, connections forming slowly. “My dad’s standing right outside, isn’t he?”

 “Yep.” Derek pops the ‘p’.

Stiles sighs dramatically, breath fogging up the mask on his face. He goes cross-eyed glaring at it and yanks it down under his chin. “He’s taken a leaf out of your creeper book,” he says, words no longer as muffled. “’s never going to leave me alone after this.”

“Probably not.” Derek agrees. “You should put that back on.”

“’S’that why you’re whispering?” Stiles ignores him. “Because of my dad? Y’know he doesn’t have supernatural hearing.”

“I know that Stiles,” this time Derek sighs.

“Why are you afraid of my dad all of a sudden?” Stiles asks. “Don’t you eat dinner with him like, once a week?” He’s not sure how he knows that. It’s not information Derek has ever offered up to him.  “Oh,” Stiles’s eyes widen in glee. “You’re ‘fraid he’s going to give you the shovel talk.”

Derek’s brows knit in confusion. “Why is your dad going to give me the shovel talk?”

“I-“ Stiles blinks. “Dunno, I just thought-” He blames exhaustion for his muddled thoughts.

 Oh.

“He’s probably going to give _me_ the shovel talk.” Stiles groans. “M’dad loves you man, he’s going to shovel talk me so hard. I don’ wanna be shovel talked.” He throws his arm up over his eyes, hissing in pain when he forgets the IV.

“Stiles?” Derek grips his hand, drawing pain as he pulls it away from Stiles face. “Stop saying shovel talk.”

There’s something familiar about his posture. The way he sits, leaning forward in his chair, hand on Stiles’s.

“You are worth it,” Stiles tells him earnestly. His eyes are drooping, but he needs Derek to know that.

 “What?”

He’s so tired he almost doesn’t catch Derek’s reply. “I heard what you said earlier,” Stiles cracks an eye open. “’You’re not worth my life.’ You are Derek.”

Derek stares at him for a moment. “I- Stiles, this is the first time I’ve been in here since you woke up.”

“No.” Stiles can see it vividly against the back of his eyelids. The room had been dim, just like is now. Derek had been sitting in almost that exact position. “I heard you.” Stiles is adamant. “And I- don’t want to lose you either.” He drags his eyes open, but he can’t look at Derek. “We’ve both lost too many people we…love.”

Derek is still staring, his mouth open in a slight ‘o’.

“Oh god,” Stiles flushes in embarrassment. “I dreamed the whole thing, didn’t I? It- it was so real.” He waves his hand at Derek. “You were sitting right there.”

“You remember that?” Derek asks carefully.

“I remember you.”

Derek blushing is a sight to behold. First his ears turn red, then the glow spreads to his cheeks and down his neck.  Stiles wants to make him do it again, but he is weary to his bones. His eyes flutter shut and it seems rude to drift off in the middle of such an important conversation, but sleep drags him down. His vaguely aware of Derek tugging the oxygen mask back over his nose and mouth.

Stiles doesn’t see the look Derek gives, but he feels the warm fingers squeeze his hand just before he drifts away.

*

Stiles is a firm believer in open communication.

So they talk.

It’s awkward and halting to begin with. Derek has to learn to use his words and Stiles is only able to stay awake a few minutes at a time.

But he gets better- gets stronger- surrounded by his family and friends. After a few days more he’s bored out of his mind. The Sheriff dad has to go back to work, Scott’s gone back to school and it’s finally just Stiles and Derek.

“You never actually told me about the witches.” Stiles is still pretty vague on the details surrounding his hospitalisation. It’s been coming back to him in bits and pieces, but neither Derek nor Scott will enlighten him on what when down they night they went to confront the coven.

Derek’s holding a book open in his lap, his feet stretched out in front of him. “Does it matter?” He asks, bookmarking his page. “They’re gone now.”

Stiles shifts trying to get at the pillow wedged behind his back. “Come on man, we talked about this.” He manages to pull the pillow up and wack Derek with it. It’s a pretty weak blow, still Derek holds up his hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay.” Derek puts his book down on the little shelf beside the bed.

*

A week later Stiles is released from hospital. He’s still under strict orders to rest, but he revels in his newfound freedom and the luxury of sleeping in his own bed.

He spends his first day at home sleeping. His second day is spent sleeping and emailing all his professors. He’s missed too much school to catch up and despite his arguments that he could totally do it, Stiles agrees to take the semester off.

Derek is over every day.

And they talk.

Stiles tells Derek about the dream he had of his mom while he was in hospital.

Derek opens up about his family. Telling Stiles stories about their large and boisterous family dinners.

They’re lying in bed together when Stiles tells Derek he’s been looking for accommodation off campus. He tells him all about Cambridge and Boston. And then Stiles asks Derek to come with him when school starts back up again.

Derek hesitates.

Stiles rolls onto his side. He’s close enough he can still make out Derek’s face in the darkness.

“It’s absolutely your choice.” Stiles tells him gently. “You don’t have to come with me. You could stay here if you want.”

“I could stay?” Derek asks. “You’d be okay with that?”

“I mean, I want you to come with me.” Stiles tangles his fingers in Derek’s hair. “But if you want to stay, that’s okay too. I’ll just have to come home more often. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Derek closes his eyes and makes his choice.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this come find me on [Tumblr](https://all-hale-the-king.tumblr.com/) and send me a prompt


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